{"id":114965,"date":"2017-09-08T09:00:32","date_gmt":"2017-09-08T13:00:32","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=114965"},"modified":"2017-09-07T15:00:10","modified_gmt":"2017-09-07T19:00:10","slug":"deaths-plus-one","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/09\/08\/deaths-plus-one\/","title":{"rendered":"Death\u2019s Plus-One"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Early that fall, Amy\u2019s cousin JJ was leaving Bertie\u2019s Hair Salon in Fox Point and decided to try the restroom at Schuyler\u2019s Funeral Home next door. Bertie\u2019s facility was cramped, there was a cat box under the sink, and the loo paper was rough pink squares of construction paper. Well, it felt<\/em>\u00a0like construction paper, and it lent a depressingly cheap air to the place. Schuyler\u2019s restrooms were spacious and cheerful, there were clean serviettes on a low ceramic table, and despite the scent of candles and the hushed voices outside, it felt more like a country house than a chapel.<\/p>\n

Out in the foyer, there was a pot of fresh coffee and a tray of small, star-shaped cookies. Men in dark suits and women in summer dresses looked at the floor and nodded to themselves. JJ signed the guest book and wrote, \u201cMy thoughts are with you,\u201d\u00a0then drew a small heart next to her name and address. The coffee wasn\u2019t bad, though the cookies were too chewy and left a gummy taste in her mouth that lasted all the way to lunch downtown.<\/p>\n

She was unprepared for the check that came in the mail a few days later. The deceased was a Portuguese merchant with three ex-wives and an alarming number of children, none of whom had lived up to his expectations. More to the point, none had been very attentive during his long decline and illness. And so, he had amended his will so that anyone who showed up at his funeral would get a check for ten thousand dollars. And anyone who didn\u2019t could go to hell.\u00a0<\/p>\n

JJ\u2019s husband was an accountant and fretted about the tax implications, but JJ was over the moon. She bought an almost new Volvo and gave Amy and\u00a0John her old Volkswagen\u00a0Beetle. It was mottled gray and looked the color of unwashed clouds, but the brakes worked, the tires were brand new, and it went up and down hills without complaint.<\/p>\n

I was sitting in the back of the VW. John and\u00a0Amy were going to the Stop and\u00a0Shop, and John was driving, his hand on the clutch. He kept the car in first gear the whole way.<\/p>\n

A song by Cat Stevens came on the radio. Amy hummed along.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis,\u201d she said, pointing to the radio. \u201cMorning Has Broken\u201d hung in the air like a bad smell. \u201cThis is what I\u2019d want to have played at my funeral.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReally?\u201d John didn\u2019t seem surprised or interested. He fumbled with the clutch as if he might shift into second, but he didn\u2019t. \u201cSince when?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSince now,\u201d Amy pouted. She tucked her hair behind her ears, which made them look smaller than they were, like miniatures.<\/p>\n

Amy and John both had shoulder length blond hair and wore clear-framed glasses. From a distance, they looked like bath toys, and up close they looked to be fourteen. They were twenty. John was in grad school, something to do with science, and Amy was a senior with a double major in medieval history and accounting.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think I\u2019d want something by Bach,\u201d John mused.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut he\u2019s German!\u201d Amy\u2019s father had been in the war and, out of a sense of pique, her mother refused to ride in German cars, making JJ\u2019s VW a serious issue until it was pointed out that it had been assembled somewhere in Illinois.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s not that<\/em>\u00a0kind of German. Anyway, if that\u2019s a problem, she doesn\u2019t have to come.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat, do you already have a guest list?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI do.\u201d<\/p>\n

John and\u00a0Amy were famous for their lists. Not just shopping lists, which littered the floor of the car, but names for their possible children, lists of books they had to read, films they had to see, cities they were going to live in.<\/p>\n

A truck rumbled past, spewing smoke, and John rolled up his window. There was a near-faded decal on it of a dementedly cheerful Elmer Fudd chasing Bugs Bunny. Elmer Fudd brandished a sawed-off shotgun, while Bugs was waving a carrot in the air. The carrot looked far more menacing.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat whole thing about carrots and night vision,\u201d John snorted. \u201cDo you have any idea how many carrots you\u2019d have to eat?<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t. I waited for the answer, but it never came.<\/p>\n

I once had supper at their house, and they served spaghetti with pur\u00e9ed carrots. John\u2019s younger sister, Ginny, had moved up from Baltimore, moved in with them, and was seated by me. She kicked me under the table. \u201cDo you want to go get some dinner?\u201d she whispered. She had a red bicycle and a bottle of Wild Turkey.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know,\u201d John looked at me in the rearview mirror, \u201cwe\u2019ve been together six years.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSince we were fifteen,\u201d Amy confirmed.<\/p>\n

\u201cSix years,\u201d John repeated. \u201cThink about it \u2026 \u201d<\/p>\n

Shit, I thought. They know. She doesn\u2019t want them to know. And they know.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d been having a sweet and very quiet affair with Ginny, more or less since she\u2019d come to live with them. Nights, she\u2019d work at the library. Afternoons, she\u2019d come over, we\u2019d lie in bed and listen to the soundtrack to Black Orpheus<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\u201cManh\u00e3 de Carnaval,\u201d I thought. That\u2019s what I\u2019d want at my funeral. \u201cManh\u00e3 de Carnaval.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSix years is a long time,\u201d Amy said. \u201cTo be together. Six years.\u201d<\/p>\n

A song by Steve Miller came on the radio.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m a joker
\nI\u2019m a smoker
\nI\u2019m a midnight toker<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\u201cLast night I made a list. Of the guys I\u2019d like to sleep with if I was going to sleep with someone else. I made a list.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were on the list,\u201d John said. He shifted into second.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were on the list,\u201d Amy confirmed.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd that\u2019s all right with me,\u201d John nodded. He looked at me in the rearview mirror.<\/p>\n

I play my music in the sun \u2026<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I hated Steve Miller and his band. All of them. It was a sudden but deep and abiding hatred. I wanted this song played at the Steve Miller Band\u2019s collective funeral. These would be gruesome and unexpected deaths involving payola, motorcycle crashes, and underage drug dealers. It would be in all the papers.<\/p>\n

Really love your peaches
\nWant to shake your tree \u2026<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

In the front seat, they were still talking.<\/p>\n

\u201cJohn didn\u2019t approve everyone \u2026 \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSome of the guys from the lab,\u201d John frowned.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe guys from the lab \u2026 that was a no.\u201d<\/p>\n

Amy turned around and looked at me over the back of her seat. Her glasses were smudged, so I couldn\u2019t tell if she winked.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut you\u2019re on the list.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd that\u2019s all right,\u201d John nodded. \u201cReally.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re friends,\u201d he added.<\/p>\n

Soon after I got home, Ginny came by.<\/p>\n

After I slept with her, I felt better.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Brian Cullman is a writer and musician living in New York City.<\/em><\/section>\n
<\/section>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  Early that fall, Amy\u2019s cousin JJ was leaving Bertie\u2019s Hair Salon in Fox Point and decided to try the restroom at Schuyler\u2019s Funeral Home next door. Bertie\u2019s facility was cramped, there was a cat box under the sink, and the loo paper was rough pink squares of construction paper. 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